David Drake - General 3 - The Anvil

THE GENERAL, Volume Three

David Drake & S. M. Stirling

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

"Raj!" Thom Poplanich blurted.

Raj Whitehall's mouth quirked. "You sound more shocked this time," he

said.

The way you look, I am more shocked, Thom thought, blinking and

stretching a little. There was no physical need; his muscles didn't

stiffen while Center held him in stasis. But the psychological

satisfaction of movement was real enough, in its own way.

The silvered globe in which they stood didn't look different, and the

reflection showed Thom himself unchanged -- down to the shaving nick

in his chin and the tear in his tweed trousers. A slight, olive-skinned

young man in gentleman's hunting clothes, looking a little younger than

his twenty-five years. He'd cut his chin before they set out to explore

the vast tunnel-catacombs beneath the Governor's Palace in East

Residence. The trousers had been torn by a ricocheting pistol-bullet,

when the globe closed around them and Raj tried to shoot his way out.

Everything was just as it had been when Raj and he first stumbled into

the centrum of the being that called itself Sector Command and Control

Unit AZ12-bl4-cOOO Mk. XIV

That had been years ago, now.

Raj was the one who'd changed, living in the outer -- the real --

world. That had been obvious on the first visit, two years after their

parting. It was much more noticeable this time. They were of an age,

but someone meeting them together for the first time would have thought

Raj a decade older.

"How long?" Thom said. He was half-afraid of the answer.

"Another year and a half."

Thom's surprise was visible. He's aged that much in so little time? he

thought. His friend was a tall man, 190 centimeters, broad-shouldered

and narrow-hipped, with a swordsman's thick wrists. There were a few

silver hairs in the bowl-cut black curls now, and his gray eyes held no

youth at all.

"Well, I've seen the titanosauroid, since," Raj went on.

"Governor Barholm did send you to the Southern Territories?"

Raj nodded; they'd discussed that on the first visit. After Raj's

victories against the Colony in the east, he was the natural choice.

"A hard campaign, from the way you look."

"No," Raj said, moistening his lips. "A little nerve-racking sometimes,

but I wouldn't call it hard, exactly."

observe, the computer said. The walls around them shivered. The perfect

reflection dissolved in smoke, which scudded away --

***

-- and returned as a ragged white pall spurting from the muzzles of

volleying rifles. From behind a courtyard wall, Raj Whitehall and

troopers wearing the red and orange neckscarves of the 5th Descott shot

down an alleyway toward the docks of Port Murchison. Each pair of hands

worked rhythmically on the lever, ting, and the spent brass shot

backward, click, as they thumbed a new round into the breech and

brought the lever back up, crack as they fired.

There were already windrows of bodies on the pavement: Squadron

warriors killed before they knew they were at risk. Survivors crouched

behind the corpses of their fellows and fired back desperately. Their

clumsy flintlocks were slow to load, inaccurate even at this range;

they had to expose themselves to reload, fumbling with powder horns and

ramrods, falling back dead more often than not as the Descotter

marksmen fired. A few threw the firearms aside with screams of

frustrated rage, charging with their long single-edged swords whirling.

By some freak one got as far as the wall, and a bayonet punched through

his belly. The man fell backward off the steel, his mouth and eyes

perfect O's of surprise.

A ball ricocheted from one of the pillars and grazed Raj's buttock

before slapping into the small of the back of the officer beside him in

the firing line. The stricken man dropped his revolver and pawed

blindly at his wound, legs giving their final twitch. Raj shot

carefully, standing in the regulation pistol-range position with one

hand behind the back and letting the muzzle fell back before putting

another round through the center of mass.

"Marcy!" the barbarians called in their Namerique dialect. Mercy! They

threw down their weapons and began raising their hands. "Marcy, migo!"

Mercy, friend!

***

Both men blinked as the vision faded -- Raj to force memory away,

Thom in surprise.

"You brought the Southern Territories back?" Thom said, slight awe in

his voice. The Squadrones -- the Squadron, under its Admiral -- had

ruled the Territories ever since they came roaring down out of the Base

Area a century and a half ago and cut a swath across the Midworld Sea.

The only previous Civil Government attempt to reconquer them had been a

spectacular disaster.

Raj shrugged, then nodded: "I was in command of the Expeditionary

Force, yes. But I couldn't have achieved anything without good troops

-- and the Spirit."

"Center isn't the Spirit of Man of the Stars, Raj. It's a Central

Command and Control Unit from before the Collapse -- the Fall, we

call it now."

Neither of them needed another set of Center's holographic scenarios to

remember what they had been shown. Earth -- Bellevue, the computer

always insisted -- from the holy realm of Orbit, swinging like a

blue-and-white shield against the stars. Points of thermonuclear fire

expanding across cities . . . and the descent into savagery that

followed. Which must have followed everywhere in the vast stellar realm

the Federation once ruled, or men from the stars would have returned.

Raj shivered involuntarily. He had been terrified as a child, when the

household priest told of the Fall. It was even more unnerving to see it

played out before the mind's eye. Worse yet was the knowledge that

Center had given him. The Fall was still happening. If Center's plan

failed, it would go on until there was nothing left on Bellevue --

anywhere in the human universe -- but flint-knapping cannibal

savages. Fifteen thousand years would pass before civilization rose

again.

Thom went on: "Center's just a computer."

Raj nodded. Computers were holy, the agents of the Spirit, but Thom's

stress on the word meant something different now. Different since he'd

been locked in stasis down here, being shown everything Center knew.

Nearly four years of continuous education.

"You know what you know, Thom," Raj said gently. "But I know what I

know." He shook hi head. "We slaughtered the whole Squadron," he went

on. Literally. "Made them attack us, then shot the shit out of them."

"And how did Governor Barholm react?" Thom asked dryly. By rights, Thom

Poplanich should have been Seated on the Chair; his grandfather had

been. Barholm Clerett's uncle had been Commander of Residence Area

Forces when the last Governor died, however, which had turned out to be

much more important.

"Well, he was certainly pleased to get the Southern Territories back,"

Raj said, looking aside. That was hard to do inside the perfectly

reflective sphere. The expedition more than paid for itself, too --

and that's not counting the tax revenues."

observe, Center said.

***

-- and men in the black uniforms of the Gubernatorial Guard were

marching Raj away, while the leveled rifles of more kept Suzette

Whitehall and Raj's men stock-still --

-- and Raj stood in a prisoner's breechclout and chains before a

tribunal of three judges in ceremonial jumpsuits and bubble helmets --

-- and he sat bound to an iron chair, as the glowing rods came closer

and closer to his eyes --

***

Raj sighed. "That might have happened, yes. According to Center, and I

don't doubt it myself. I was a little . . . apprehensive . . . about

something like that. I'm not any more; the Army grapevine has been

pretty conclusive. In fact, when the Levee is held this afternoon, I'm

confident of getting another major command."

"The Western Territories?'

"How did you guess?"

"Even Barholm isn't crazy enough to try conquering the Colony. Yet."

"Yes." Raj nodded and ran a hand through his hair. "The problem is,

he's probably too suspicious to give me enough men to actually do it."

Thom blinked again. Raj has changed, he thought. The young man he had

known had been ambitious -- dreaming of beating back a major raid

from the Colony, say, out on the eastern frontier. This weathered

young-old commander was casually confident of overrunning the second

most powerful realm on the Middle Sea, given adequate backing. The

Brigade had held the Western Territories for nearly six hundred years.

They were almost civilized . . . for barbarians. Odd to think that they

were descendants of Federation troops stranded in the Base Area after

the Fall.

"Barholm," Raj went on with clinical detachment -- sounding almost

like Center, for a moment -- "thinks that either I'll fail -- "

observe, Center said.

***

Dead men gaped around a smashed cannon. The Starburst banner of the

Civil Government of Holy Federation draped over some of the bodies,

mercifully. Raj crawled forward, the stump of his left arm tattered and

red, still dribbling blood despite the improvised tourniquet. His right

just touched the grip of his revolver as the Brigade warrior reined in

his riding dog and stood in the stirrups to jam the lance downward into

his back. Again, and again . . .

***

" -- or I'll succeed, and he can deal with me then." observe, Center

said.

***

Raj Whitehall stood by the punchbowl at a reception; Thom Poplanich

recognized the Upper Promenade of the palace by the tall windows and

the checkerboard pavement of the terrace beyond. Brilliant gaslight

shone on couples swirling below the chandeliers in the formal patters

of court dance; on bright uniforms and decorations, on the ladies'

gowns and jewelry. He could almost smell the scents of perfume and

pomade and sweat. Off to one side the orchestra played, the soft rhythm

of the steel drums cutting through the mellow brass of trumpets and the

rattle of marachaz. Silence spread like a ripple through the crowd as

the Gubernatorial Guard troopers clanked into the room. Their black-

and-silver uniforms and nickel-plated breastplates shone, but the

rifles in their hands were very functional. The officer leading them

bowed stiffly before Raj.

"General Whitehall -- " he began, holding up a letter sealed with the

purple-and-gold of a Governor's Warrant.

***

"Barholm doesn't deserve to have a man like you serving him," Thom

burst out.

"Oh, I agree," Raj said. For a moment his rueful grin made him seem

boyish again, all but the eyes.

"Then stay here," Thom urged. "Center could hold you in stasis, like

me, until long after Barholm is dust. And while we wait, we can be

learning everything. All the knowledge in the human universe. Center's

been teaching me things . . . things you couldn't imagine."

"The problem is, Thom, I'm serving the Spirit of Man of the Stars.

Whose Viceregent on Earth -- "

bellevue, Center said.

" -- Viceregent on Bellevue happens to be Barholm Clerett. Besides the

fact that my wife and friends are waiting for me; and frankly, I

wouldn't want my troops in anyone else's hands right now, either." He

sighed. "Most of all . . . well, you always were a scholar, Thom. I'm a

soldier; and the Spirit has called me to serve as a soldier. If I die,

that goes with the profession. And all men die, in the end."

essentially correct, Center noted, its machine-voice more somber than

usual. restoring interstellar civilization on bellevue and to humanity

in general is an aim worth more than any single life. A pause, more

than any million lives.

Raj nodded. "And besides . . . in a year, I may die. Or Barholm may

die. Or the dog may learn how to sing."

They made the embrhazo of close friends, touching each cheek. Thom

froze again; Raj swallowed and looked away. He had seen many men die.

Too many to count, over the last few years, and he saw them again in

his dreams far more often than he wished. This frozen un-death

disturbed him in a way the windrows of corpses after a battle did not.

No breath, no heartbeat, the chill of a corpse -- yet Thom lived.

Lived, and did not age.

He stepped out of the doorway that appeared silently in the mirrored

sphere, into the tunnel with its carpet of bones -- the bones of

those Center had rejected over the years as it waited for the man who

would be its sword in the world.

Then again, he thought, stasis isn't so bad, when you consider the

alternatives.

***

"Bloody hell," Major Ehwardo Poplanich said, sotto voce. "How long is

this going to take? If I'd wanted to sit on my butt and be bored, I

would have stayed home on the estate." He ran a hand over his thinning

brown hair.

He was part of the reason that Raj Whitehall and his dozen Companions

had plenty of space to themselves on the padded sofa-bench that ran

down the side of the anteroom. Nobody at Court wanted to stand too

close to a close relation of the last Poplanich Governor. Quite a few

wondered why Poplanich was with Raj; Thom Poplanich had disappeared in

Raj's company years before, and Thom's brother Des had died when Raj

put down a bungled coup attempt against Governor Barholm.

Another part of the reason the courtiers avoided them was doubt about

exactly how Raj stood with the Chair, of course.

The rest of it was the other Companions, the dozen or so close

followers Raj had collected in his first campaign on the eastern

frontier or in the Southern Territories. Many of the courtiers had

spent their adult lives in the Palace, waiting in corridors like this.

The Companions seemed part of the scene at first, in dress or walking-

out uniforms like many of the men not in Court robes or religious

vestments. Until you came closer and saw the scars, and the eyes.

"We'll wait as long as His Supremacy wants us to, Ehwardo," Colonel

Gerrin Staenbridge said, swinging one elegantly booted foot over his

knee. He looked to be exactly what he was: a stylish, handsome

professional soldier from a noble family of moderate wealth, a man of

wit and learning, and a merciless killer. "Consider yourself lucky to

have an estate in a county that's boring; back home in Descott County

-- "

" -- bandits come down the chimney once a week on Starday," Ehwardo

finished. "Isn't that right, M'lewis?"

"I wouldna know, ser," the rat-faced little man said virtuously.

The Companions were unarmed, despite their dress uniforms -- the Life

Guard troopers at the doors and intervals along the corridor were fully

equipped -- but Raj suspected that the captain of the 5th Descott's

Scout Troop had something up his sleeve.

Probably a wire garrote, he thought. M'lewis had enlisted one step

ahead of the noose, having made Bufford Parish -- the most lawless

part of not-very-lawful Descott County -- too hot for comfort. Raj

had found his talents useful enough to warrant promotion to

commissioned rank, after nearly flogging the man himself at their first

meeting -- a matter of a farmer's pig lifted as the troops went past.

The Scout Troop was full of M'lewis's friends, relatives and neighbors;

it was also known to the rest of the 5th as the Forty Thieves, not

without reason.

Captain Bartin Foley looked up from sharpening the inner curve of the

hook that had replaced his left hand His face had been boyishly pretty

when Raj first saw him, four years before. Officially he'd been an aide

to Gerrin Staenbridge, unofficially a boyfriend-in-residence. He'd had

both hands, then, too.

"Why don't you?" he asked M'lewis. "Know about bandits coming down the

chimney, that is."

Snaggled yellow teeth showed in a grin. "Ain't no sheep nor yet any

cattle inna chimbley, ser," M'lewis answered in the rasping nasal

accent of Descott "An' ridin' dogs, mostly they're inna stable. No use

comin' down t'chimbly then, is there?"

The other Companions chuckled, then rose in a body. The crowd surged

away from them, and split as Suzette Whitehall swept through.

Messa Suzette Emmenalle Forstin Hogor Wenqui Whitehall, Raj thought.

Lady of Hillchapel. My wife.

Even now that thought brought a slight lurch of incredulous happiness

below his breastbone. She was a small woman, barely up to his shoulder,

but the force of the personality behind the slanted hazel-green eyes

was like a jump into cool water on a hot day. Seventeen generations of

East Residence nobility gave her slim body a greyhound grace, the tilt

of her fine-featured olive face an unconscious arrogance. Over her own

short black hair she was wearing a long blond court wig covered in a

net of platinum and diamonds. More jewels sparkled on her bodice, on

her fingers, on the gold-chain belt. Leggings of embroidered torofib

silk made from the cocoons of burrowing insects in far-off Azania

flashed enticingly through a fashionable split skirt of Kelden lace.

Raj took her hand and raised it to his lips; they stood for a moment

looking at each other.

A metal-shod staff thumped the floor, and the tall bronze panels of the

Audience Hall swung open. The gorgeously robed figure of the Janitor -

- the Court Usher -- bowed and held out his staff, topped by the

star symbol of the Civil Government.

Suzette took Raj's arm. The Companions fell in behind him,

unconsciously forming a column of twos. The functionary's voice boomed

out with trained precision through the gold-and-niello speaking

trumpet:

"General the Honorable Messer Raj Ammenda Halgern da Luis Whitehall,

Whitehall of Hillchapel, Hereditary Supervisor of Smythe Parish,

Descott County! His Lady, Suzette Emmenalle -- "

Raj ignored the noise, ignored the brilliantly-decked crowds who waited

on either side of the carpeted central aisle, the smells of polished

metal, sweet incense and sweat. As always, he felt a trace of annoyance

at the constriction of the formal-dress uniform, the skin-tight crimson

pants and gilt codpiece, the floor-length indigo tails of the coat and

high epaulets and plumed silvered helmet. . . .

The Audience Hall was two hundred meters long and fifty high, its

arched ceiling a mosaic showing the wheeling galaxy with the Spirit of

Man rising head and shoulders behind it. The huge dark eyes were full

of stars themselves, staring down into your soul.

Along the walls were automatons, dressed in the tight uniforms worn by

Terran Federation soldiers twelve hundred years before. They whirred

and clanked to attention, powered by hidden compressed-air conduits,

bringing their archaic and quite nonfunctional battle lasers to salute.

The Guard troopers along the aisle brought their entirely functional

rifles up in the same gesture. They ignored the automatons, but some of

the crowd who hadn't been long at Court flinched from the awesome

technology and started uneasily when the arclights popped into blue-

white radiance above each pointed stained-glass window.

The far end of the audience chamber was a hemisphere plated with

burnished gold, lit via mirrors from hidden arcs. It glowed with a

blinding aura, strobing slightly. The Chair itself stood four meters in

the air on a pillar of fretted silver, the focus of light and mirrors

and every eye in the giant room. The man enchaired upon it sat with

hieratic stiffness, light breaking in metallized splendor from his

robes, the bejeweled Keyboard and Stylus in his hands. From somewhere

out of sight a chorus of voices chanted a hymn, inhumanly high and

sweet, castrati belling out the chorus and young girls on the descant:

"He intercedes for us --

Viceregent of the Spirit of Man of the Stars!

By Him are we boosted to the Orbit of Fulfillment --

Supreme! Most Mighty Sovereign, Lord!

In His hands is the power of Holy Federation Church --

Ruler without equal! Sole rightful Autocrat!

He wields the Sword of Law and the Flail of Justice --

Most excellent of Excellencies! Father of the State!

Download His words and execute the Program, ye People --

Endfile! Endfile! Ennd . . . fiiille."

On either side of the arch framing the Chair were golden trees ten

times taller than a man, with leaves so faithfully wrought that their

edges curled and quivered in the slight breeze. Wisps of white-colored

incense drifted through them from the censers swinging in the hands of

attendant priests in stark white jumpsuit vestments, their shaven heads

glittering with circuit diagrams. The branches of the trees glittered

also, as birds carved from tourmaline and amethyst and lapis lazuli

piped and sang. Their song rose to a high trilling as the pillar that

supported the Chair sank toward the white marble steps; at the rear of

the enclosure two full-scale statues of gorgosauroids rose to their

three-meter height and roared as the seat of the Governor of the Civil

Government sank home with a slight sigh of hydraulics. The semicircle

of high ministers came out from behind their desks -- each had a

ceremonial viewscreen of strictly graded size -- and sank down in the

full prostration, linking their hands behind their heads. So did

everyone in the Hall, except for the armed guards.

The Companions had stopped a few meters back. Now Raj felt Suzette's

hand leave his; she sank down with a courtier's elegance, making the

gesture of reverence seem a dance. He walked three more steps to the

edge of the carpet and went to one knee, bowing his head deeply and

putting a hand to his breast -- the privilege of his rank, as a

general and as one of Barholm's chosen Guards. It might have done him

some good to have made the three prostrations of a supplicant; on the

other hand, that could be taken as an admission of guilt.

You never know, with Barholm, Raj thought. You never know. Center?

effect too uncertain to usefully calculate, the passionless inner voice

said. After a pause: with barholm even chaos theory is becoming of

limited predictive ability.

Raj blinked. There were times he thought Center was developing a sense

of humor. That was obscurely disturbing in its own right. Dark take it,

he'd never been much good at pleading anyway. Flickers of holographic

projection crossed his vision; Barholm calling the curse of the Spirit

down on his head, Barholm pinning a high decoration to Raj's chest --

Cloth-of-gold robes sewn with emeralds and sapphires swirled into Raj's

view. The toes of equally lavish slippers showed from under them. A

tense silence filled the Hall; Raj could feel the eyes on his back,

hundreds of them. Like a pack of carnosauroids waiting for a cow to

stumble, he thought. Then:

"Rise, Raj Whitehall!"

Barholm's voice was a precision instrument, deep and mellow. With the

superb acoustics of the hall behind it, the words rolled out more

clearly than the Janitor's had through the megaphone. Behind them a

long rustling sigh marked the release of tension.

Raj came to his feet, bending slightly for the ceremonial embrace and

touch of cheeks. He was several centimeters taller than the Governor,

although they were both Descotters. Barholm had the brick build and

dark heavy features common there, but Raj's father had married a

noblewoman from the far northwest, Kelden County. Folk there were

nearly as tall and fair as the Namerique-speaking barbarians of the

Military Governments.

The two men turned, the tall soldier and the stocky autocrat Barholm's

hand rested on his general's shoulder, a mark of high favor. Behind

them the bidden chorus sang a high wordless note.

"Nobles and clerics of the Civil Government -- behold the man who We

call Savior of the State! Behold the Sword of the Spirit of Man!" The

orator's voice rolled out again. The chorus came crashing in on the

heels of it:

"Praise him! Praise him! Praise him!"

Raj watched the throng come to their feet, putting one palm to their

ears and raising the other hand to the sky -- invoking the Spirit of

Man of the Stars as they shouted, "Glory, glory!" and "You conquer,

Barholm!"

Every one of them would have cheered his summary execution with equal

enthusiasm -- or greater.

Suzette's shining eyes met his.

not quite all, Center reminded him. Behind Suzette the Companions were

grinning as they cheered, far less than all.

The cheering died as Barholm raised a hand. "On Starday next shall be

held a great day of rejoicing in the Temple and throughout the city.

For three days thereafter East Residence shall hold festival in honor

of General Whitehall and the brave men he led to victory over the

barbarians of the Squadron; wine barrels shall stand at every

crossroads, and the government storehouses will dispense to the people.

On the third day, the spoils and prisoners will be exhibited in the

Canidrome, to be followed by races and games in honor of the Savior of

the State."

This time the cheers were deafening; if there was one thing everyone in

East Residence loved, it was a spectacle. The chorus was barely

audible, and the sound rose to a new peak as Barholm embraced Raj once

more.

"There'll be a staff meeting right after all this play-acting," he said

into Raj's ear, his voice flat. "There's the campaign in the Western

Territories to plan."

He turned, and everyone bowed low as he withdrew through the private

entrance behind the Chair.

So passes the glory of this world, Raj thought. Death or victory, and

if victory --

observe, Center said. Holographic vision shimmered before his eyes,

invisible to any but himself:

***

It took a moment for Raj to recognize the naked man: it was himself,

his face contorted and slick with the burnt fluid of his own eyeballs,

after the irons had had their way with them. Thick leather straps held

his wrists and ankles splayed out in an X.

The hooded executioners were just fastening each limb to the pull-chain

of a yoke of oxen. The crowd beyond murmured, held back by a line of

leveled bayonets.

CHAPTER TWO

Governor Barholm stood while the servants stripped off his heavy robes.

The Negrin Room dated to the reign of Negrin III, three centuries

before; the walls were pale stone, traced over with delicate murals of

reeds and flying dactosauroids and waterfowl; there was only one small

Star, a token obeisance to religion as had been common in that impious

age. The heads of the Ministries were there, and Mihwel Berg as

Administrator of the newly-conquered Southern Territories and

representative of the Administrative Service; Chancellor Tzetzas, of

course; General Klostermann, Master of Soldiers, Bernardinho Rivadavia,

the Minister of Barbarians, and Lady Anne Clerett as well, the

Governors wife. She gave Raj a sincere smile as they waited for the

Governor to finish disrobing.

There's one real friend at court, he thought. Suzette's friend,

actually.

Barholm sat, and the others bowed and joined him.

"Well, messers," he said abruptly, opening the file an aide placed

before him. "It's time to deal with the Western Territories and the

barbarians of the Brigade who impiously hold the Old Residence,

original seat of the Civil Government of Holy Federation -- since

we've reduced the Southern Territories quite satisfactorily, thanks to

the aid of the Spirit of Man of the Stars, and Its Sword, General

Whitehall."

There was a murmur of applause, and Raj looked down at his hands. "I

had good troops and officers," he said.

"Your Supremacy," Tzetzas said. "We all give praise to the Spirit" --

there was a mass touching of amulets, most of them genuine ancient

computer components, in this assembly -- "and to our General

Whitehall, and to your wise policy, that the barbarian heretics were

defeated so easily. Yet I would be remiss in my duties if I failed to

point out that the Civil Government is still reeling from the expense

of the southern campaign -- completed less than a year ago. Which

has, in fact, so far served to enrich only the officers involved in the

operation."

observe, Center said:

***

Muzzaf Kerpatik was on the docks in Port Murchison, capital of the

reconquered Southern Territories. He was a small dark man from Komar,

near the Colonial border; once a merchant and agent of Chancellor

Tzetzas, until the latter's schemes had grown too much for even his

elastic conscience. Since then he'd proven himself useful to Raj in a

number of ways . . . although Raj hadn't known about this one,

precisely. He was overseeing the loading of a ship, a medium-sized

three-masted merchantman. Bolts of silk were going aboard, and burlap

sacks filled with crystals of raw saltpeter, bales of rosauroid hides,

and slatted wooden boxes stuffed with what looked like gold and silver

tableware. A coffle of women chained neck-and-neck waited to board

later: all young and good-looking, some stunningly so, and in the

remnants of rich clothing in the gaudy style of the Squadron nobility

-- families of those barbarian nobles who'd refused to yield to the

Spirit of Man of the Stars or missed the amnesty after the surrender,

headed for Civil Government slave markets.

Raj thought he could place the time: about a month after the final

battle on the docks. It had taken that long, and repeated scrubbings,

before the rotting blood stopped drawing crawling mats of flies.

I'd heard about streets running with blood, he reminded himself. Never

seen it until then. Vice-Admiral Curtis Auburn had landed ten thousand

Squadron warriors on those docks, unaware that the main Squadron host

was defeated and Raj in control of the city. Curtis had been lucky

enough to be captured almost immediately, but less than one in ten of

his men had survived the day.

The vision couldn't be much more than a month after that, because

Suzette was riding up and leaning down to examine the checklist in

Kerpatik's hand, and both Whitehalls had sailed home when Raj was

recalled in quasi-disgrace.

***

"Should we not pause and recoup our resources?" the Chancellor

concluded. "Especially when our internal situation is so delicate."

Due in no small measure to Your Most Blatant Corruptibility, Raj

thought ironically. There was a popular East Residence legend that a

poisonous fangmouth had once bitten Tzetzas at a garden party, the

unfortunate reptile was believed to have died in horrible convulsions

within minutes. The Chancellor had raised enormous sums for Barholm's

wars and public works projects, and a good deal of it had stuck to his

own beautifully manicured fingers.

Raj's expression was blandly respectful and attentive. On the

expedition to the Southern Territories, Tzetzas had seen that Raj

sailed with weevily hardtack and bunker coal that was half shale; Raj

had returned the favor in his last stop in Civil Government territory

by exchanging the goods for replacements from Tzetzas's own estates and

mines, at full book price.

observe, Center said,

***

Sesar Chayvez stood before his patron. The plump little man was

sweating as Tzetzas sat leafing through the documents in the file

before him.

David Drake - General 3 - The Anvil

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